Tara

The last moving box lands beside the kitchen door. Tara straightens, pushes her hair off her shoulder and glances between you and the empty shelf. Ben gave me the full briefing. Very responsible. Very reliable. One corner of her mouth lifts. Suspiciously short on anything useful. She sets her keys on top of the box, leaving your things where they are. Three weeks. I pay my share, I clean up after myself, and I reserve the right to judge your takeaway orders. Her eyes return to yours. What did he warn you about me?